


Dog Days and Summer Snows

by cleromancy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Community: got_exchange, Enemies to Lovers, Light Bondage, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Circumstances force Jon to realize he's made a lot of incorrect assumptions about Theon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Days and Summer Snows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> WARNINGS: Jon has some attitudes towards Theon that could be interpreted as sex-shaming, and shoves Theon a bit and pins him against a wall. Theon says smt awful while implying Jon's mother was a sex worker, and makes some vaguely heterosexist comments about him. My take on Jon’s sexuality is highly influenced by him not showing interest in girls until Ygritte; he’s also not exactly aware of multisexuality, and that shows up in his musings about Theon. Super light bondage and power play vibes. 
> 
> Show canon ages, book canon everything else except the slightly au concept. I CANNOT EXPRESS THE DEPTHS OF MY GRATITUDE TO LAURA @MAUTADITE AND NORA @TENSHILLINGSIXPENSE FOR THEIR EXTENSIVE AND THOROUGH BETAING, EDITING AND CHEERLEADING. Also s/o to the gotex mod for giving me approximately 1000 extensions.
> 
> Comments of all sorts--single words, rambling, long and critical, etc--are WELCOMED and APPRECIATED and SCREECHED OVER.

Just as Jon thought he’d keel over if he ran another drill, Ser Rodrik called off weapons training early. Normally Jon was loath to miss practice—he had to be twice as good as the trueborns to get half as much respect, and besides, he enjoyed knocking Robb on his behind—but the torturous heat beating down on the courtyard was too much for even him. 

After helping put away the equipment, Robb threw a companionable arm over Jon's shoulders. 

"It's too hot to be alive," he said, cheerful tone belying his words.

Jon shoved him off. "It's too hot for _touching_ ," he said. "And you stink like a pig."

Robb ignored him, trying to return his arm to its perch. "We should go to the godswood." 

"To pray for summer snows?" Jon shoved Robb off again. 

"You think that'd work?" Robb asked hopefully. 

Jon smirked. 

"Ugh," said Robb. "No. Swimming. Only thing for this blasted heat."

With that, Robb reached out again to put his arm back. Jon ducked out from under it. Undaunted, Robb tried again; Jon elbowed him in the ribs, dancing out of reach before Robb could make another attempt. 

Laughing, Robb lunged after him. Jon dodged, grinning. Then, with a challenging look, he took off towards the godswood. He knew without checking that Robb was racing after him.

They stripped as they ran in their haste to escape the heat, leaving their clothes where they fell. Right before the pool came into view, Jon got tangled in his attempt to remove his shirt. Cursing, he struggled as Robb gleefully sped past him. 

Just as Jon managed to free himself, Robb’s voice rang out.

“Theon!”

Jon’s stomach sank.

Sure enough, Theon Greyjoy was swimming gracefully towards them, favoring Robb with one of his would-be-handsome-if-you-didn't-know-him smiles. Jon tamped down a scowl. Theon had been mercifully absent from today’s training, but apparently a morning without Theon's company was too much to hope for.

When Theon reached them, he shook his hair out of his face. "Stark," he said, ignoring Jon entirely. "Done with training?"

Robb, trapped in one leg of his breeches, hopped until he emerged triumphantly nude. "Let off early for the heat!" 

Without wasting any more time, Robb ran and leaped into the water. Theon dove away, barely managing to avoid cushioning Robb's landing, and not at all managing to avoid Robb’s sizable splash. 

Jon looked over his shoulder at the forest, considering heading back to the castle. Enduring the heat might be worth avoiding Theon's company. 

It was tempting, except Jon was even more unwelcome there than usual. Preparations for Lord Edmure's visit had the entire household scurrying around under Lady Stark’s watchful eye. Jon couldn’t afford to flaunt his existence; at best, he’d be a much less endearing version of Arya Underfoot. Besides, he'd have to get used to staying out of sight. With Lord Edmure as a guest, Jon's presence would cast an offensive cloud over the proceedings. 

Still, Jon wavered. He glanced warily at Theon. 

Theon wasn’t even looking at him. He was already on the other side of the pool with Robb. Of course Theon was ignoring him; Jon didn't know what he expected. It was all Theon ever did. Jon rolled his shoulders, suddenly irritated by the sweat crawling down his skin. 

Jon yanked off the rest of his clothes, then stepped into the pool. The water was pleasantly cold, but not enough to relieve his suddenly foul mood. His skin was still too hot. He sank beneath the surface and stayed there until his lungs burned, wishing he could breathe underwater. Resurfacing reluctantly, he pushed his sodden curls back from his forehead and paddled across to Robb and Theon. 

As Jon shook water out of his ears, Robb was saying, “—and why weren’t you at practice this morning, anyway?”

Theon’s ever-present smile grew smarmier. He stretched languidly, arching his back like a cat. “I’d tell you, but it might be too much for Snow here.”

Of course Theon would only acknowledge Jon to jape at his expense.

“Do you have something exciting to say?” Jon asked curiously. “It would be the first time.”

Theon’s smile flickered into a scowl and back. Nothing kept that smile away for long. “I suppose _you_ wouldn’t find it exciting,” he said.

There was no telling what that meant. Unless Theon finally realized he bored those who weren't as enamored with him as he was with himself.

Before Jon could ask, Theon spoke. “I was in Wintertown,” he said.

 _Ah._ Jon couldn’t hold back a scoff. Wintertown had many attractions, but only one that held Theon's interests.

Theon eyed him. “Who pissed in your porridge? I didn't even say where I went.”

“Do you ever go anywhere else in Wintertown?” Jon asked. "Do you ever talk about anything besides brothel women?"

No, that was unfair; Theon also talked about serving girls, tavern wenches, and bored wives of lowborn men.

“You'd understand if you'd ever been inside a woman," Theon said dismissively.

It was an entirely predictable reply. Theon was nothing if not consistent.

Once, Robb said Jon would like Theon if he tried to understand him, and hadn’t understood why Jon laughed. The futility of it boggled the mind; Theon’s depths were as profound as a puddle’s. It was one of the most baffling things about Robb and Theon’s friendship—why Theon, of all people? Jon saw no redeeming characteristics, and there was an endless supply of better conversationalists. Hodor, for example.

Despite Robb’s claims to the contrary, Jon contemplated Theon plenty. To know Theon was to puzzle over him, and Jon had known Theon for over half his life. Theon was impossible to avoid since he glued himself to Robb's side; for another thing, Theon’s exploits often featured in the servants' gossip. As a bastard, Jon grew up unobtrusive and observant—and he wasn’t important enough to shut up around. The servants talked about everything they saw, and they saw everything. Most of what happened in Winterfell made its way to Jon's ears eventually, and Jon remembered all of what he heard.

As far as Jon could see, Robb invented depth where there was none. Besides, Theon had never tried to understand Jon, so why should Jon give him that courtesy?

"I'm sure it's worth the dishonor," said Jon.

Uncomfortably glancing between them, Robb spoke. “What Jon meant was—”

“What Jon meant was what he said,” said Jon flatly. 

Theon, however, did not seem offended. “You _would_.”

 _This is growing tiresome,_ thought Jon. "Do you have something to say to me, Greyjoy?" he asked levelly.

"Tell me," Theon said. “Do you think the brothel girls have any virtue left to lose?"

"I'm not about to make anymore bast—"

"There are ways where you couldn't get a child on her if you tried," said Theon. "But I suppose the Bastard Maiden of Winterfell wouldn't know about them."

"Moon tea doesn't always work," Jon said stiffly.

Theon's mocking smile was anything but handsome. "I wasn't talking about moon tea," he said. “It’d be worth considering— _if_ you had any interest at all.”

While Jon tried to decide whether to respond verbally or sneer, Robb spoke.

"Well, I’m curious about the girl you met now," he said, unease smothered by layers of forced cheer. "A girl who impressed even Theon? That can't completely bore you, Jon."

"All talk of women bores him," said Theon derisively. “He’ll be a better fit on the Wall.”

 _Enough,_ Jon thought. Lady Stark or no, he was done. “I’ll see you back at the castle, Robb,” he said.

Before Theon could say anything else, Jon ducked beneath the surface. He swam across underwater, only re-emerging at the other side of the pool. The water cleared his ears just as Theon said something about teats; fortunately, Jon was facing away, so Theon couldn't see him blush.

Adding to his embarrassment, Jon remembered he'd left his clothes scattered about. Cursing himself, he set off to hunt down each garment. 

Out of sight of the pool, Jon dumped his armful of clothes on the ground and shook off the worst of the water. He wrung out his hair and then pulled his shirt over his head. It was only when he was almost clothed again that he realized he’d forgotten his socks.

He grimaced. It was tempting to leave and come back for them later, but by then they’d be gone or ruined. He had to turn around and face the humiliation of a thwarted dramatic exit. 

To Jon's relief, he spotted a pair—possibly his, possibly Robb’s, it made no matter—close to the pool, but hidden by a copse of trees. If Jon didn't make a sound, the others might not notice him at all. Trying not to step on branches and reveal himself, Jon moved gingerly towards them. As he ducked to pick them up, voices floated through the thicket.

"I'd just feel better if you and Jon could be there with me," Robb was saying.

 _Theon and me...?_ Jon wondered, and then, _ah. The Tully visit._

Theon's reply was too low to make out.

"You know that's not how I see you," Robb said, his voice taking an anxious turn. Without meaning to, Jon crept closer.

“It’s what I am,” said Theon harshly. “Even if you don’t see me as a hostage, everyone else does.”

Jon dropped his socks.

Theon was still talking, but Jon couldn't hear it. He knew Theon was a hostage—he'd worked out for himself why his father always made Theon retrieve Ice for beheadings—but he'd never heard Theon speak of it so baldly. _I shouldn’t be listening to this,_ Jon thought, but he couldn’t make himself move.

“It should be enough,” Robb said fiercely. “You’re not your father. The rebellion wasn’t your fault. That should be enough for everyone.”

A laugh, low and bitter. “It never is.”

Despite himself, Jon strained to hear more, but they were no longer talking. The only sound was a pensive wind through the trees. 

Jon exhaled. He bent down, picked up the socks again, and walked away.

*

Jon didn't have long to contemplate what he’d overheard. When he reached the Great Keep, Vayon Poole pulled him aside. Apparently Jon’s father had something to discuss with him.

Seeing Jon's alarmed expression, Poole laughed and told him to calm down. "It's only about the Tully visit," he said, and sent him off. 

The door to Jon’s father's solar was open. He was inside waiting, standing behind his desk, furrowing his brow at a pile of parchments. Despite what Poole had said, his father's serious expression set Jon on edge.

Jon hovered by the door for a moment, biting his lip, and then knocked once on the doorframe.

His father looked up. His face softened, and Jon relaxed.

"Come in," his father said warmly.

Jon walked up to his father's desk and clasped his hands behind his back. He rarely entered this room. When he played hide-and-find with his siblings, it was off limits. None of them wanted to disturb their father and risk his reproach. His sternness was silencing, his disappointment crushing. 

His father said, "Lord Edmure will arrive before the week is out. We must prepare the best rooms for them, so you'll stay in the Guest Hall."

Jon already knew that, but there was no point saying so. "Yes, my lord," he said instead. 

"It would be prudent to move your belongings tonight." 

"Yes, my lord." 

His father shifted, shuffling some of the parchments on his desk. He cleared his throat. Jon's eyebrows rose slightly. He waited.

Finally, his father spoke. “There is another matter.”

That was a surprise. “Another…?”

“Yes,” said his father. He hesitated. “There was a raven this morning. Lord Edmure’s entourage was rather larger than we expected.”

For the second time that day, Jon’s stomach sank.

“You'll have to share,” his father continued. “And I thought it would be best to keep you with a boy your own age—one you already know."

 _Don't say it,_ Jon pleaded silently. But he knew his father would.

"Theon has to give up his room as well, so it’s the best option," said his father. "I know you and he haven't always gotten along..."

 _No, Father,_ Jon wanted to say. _We haven't, we never have, we never will. I can sleep in the stables. I can sleep in the kennels. I can go to the Wall early._ He opened his mouth.

"But you're both men grown now," said his father. "I know you'll put aside your differences for the duration."

Jon closed his mouth.

"It's the best option, Jon," his father said, not looking at him.

“Of course,” Jon croaked. “May I be excused?”

His father waved him out.

Head pounding, Jon left. His mind replayed the conversation on an endless loop: _men grown… boy your own age… tonight…_ His thoughts were so loud and consuming that he didn’t hear another person in the hall until he turned the corner and nearly smacked into Theon Greyjoy.

Startled, they stared for a moment, completely still. Then, still without acknowledging Jon, Theon strode past him, shoulder-checking him hard on the way.

Refusing to let himself rub the aching shoulder, Jon glared after Theon. He tried to take comfort in the fact that Theon would hate it as much as he would. Somehow, it wasn’t a very helpful thought. 

*

After Jon forced himself to pack, Vayon Poole showed him to his temporary room. Theon hadn't yet arrived at their shared chamber. Likely it took him longer to pack. Theon had more material possessions than Jon, and was more opposed to packing light.

The materialism was yet another distasteful thing about Theon. All aspects of his bearing exuded a certain carelessness; his blatant display of luxuries spoke conspicuously of wealth. He presented it as his due as the Greyjoy heir, but truthfully the money came from Jon’s father. It was a stipend, imposed presumably to teach him financial responsibility. 

Theon, being Theon, used it in an exclusively irresponsible fashion. The gold never got a chance to weigh his purse. He liked to be seen with bottles of expensive wines or, if he felt like slumming, coming and going from the Wintertown tavern. He was a favorite among the younger castle guards for buying rounds for an entire room, which was presumably the only way he could make friends.

But by far, Theon spent the most bedecking himself like like a Southron peacock. Velvets and silks stitched with thread-of-gold, pinned with fine filigree brooches; every piece was embroidered, engraved, or otherwise embellished with krakens. Jon once counted twenty on a single doublet. 

Doubtless it stemmed from Theon's desire to draw every eye in the room. Admittedly, it worked; the flashiness was conspicuous if nothing else. But it did nothing for his features. Theon would be handsome enough if he kept his mouth shut, except the gaudy baubles highlighted the arrogance of his face. It was good in a way—it was easier to see what sort of man he was straight off. 

Jon rarely hid his disdain for Theon; he'd proven incapable of it when he tried. When Theon saw Jon scrutinizing his clothing, he took it as jealousy. He seemed to like the idea that the bastard, who must never look more lordly than his trueborn siblings, envied the marks of status. It was further proof that Theon knew nothing about Jon at all. 

If Jon were jealous of Theon Greyjoy, it wouldn't be for his wardrobe. 

Theon's showiness was a symptom. It was his ease in drawing the eye, allowing himself to take up space. It was his sense of entitlement that he deserved to be looked at, deserved beautiful things. It was his comfort in the knowledge that there was a home waiting for him where he would have all the things he now lacked. Hostage or no, Theon had always known who he was and where he belonged.

If Jon were jealous of Theon Greyjoy, it would be for that. 

Jon shook his head to clear it. _Enough,_ he told himself, strangely ashamed. If he wanted to survive the Tully visit, he needed to stop counting Theon’s flaws. The less he thought about Theon, the more he liked him. Or, well. The less he disliked him, at least. 

The night wore on with no sign of Theon. Perhaps Jon’s father hadn’t told Theon to move tonight, or perhaps Theon had merely ignored the suggestion. Either way, Jon lay in the room’s one bed, waiting for Theon to arrive. He never slept well in new places, but knowing Theon would come in at any time made it utterly impossible. The slightest noise startled him awake—and there were a lot of noises, because there was no glass on the windows to mute the crickets and owls and other obnoxious nightsingers. Each time Jon awoke it set his heart to pounding, only for the door to remain shut and annoyance to wash over him again and again. 

Scant hours after dawn, Jon gave up his tossing and turning. It was too early for breakfast to be in the Great Hall just yet, so he made his way to the kitchens, irritable from lack of sleep. He managed to grab some of last night's bread and an apple without bothering anyone. He always felt guilty when a kitchen girl offered to fetch him something; they usually felt obligated to when he showed up. Probably they wanted him out of their hair quicker. 

After eating, Jon was at a loss for what to do. No doubt his siblings were getting lectured on how to behave by their mother, the Septa, or both. Everyone else was busy preparing, including the Maester and Ser Rodrik, so training and lessons were canceled. Jon would have liked to help out, but knew he’d only get in the way. 

Out of the kitchens, Jon glumly surveyed his surroundings. The stables, kennels and courtyard were teeming with people, and the armory and smithy doubtless would be soon. That left his and Theon’s room—definitely out—and the library tower. Considering, Jon tilted his head. Maybe there'd be something on the shelves that wasn't hideously boring.

To Jon's surprise, the library was more entertaining than he remembered it. The writing rarely held his interest for more than a few pages, but that hardly mattered. One book had beautiful, loopy script that Jon couldn't read a word of. Another— _The History of Domesticating Ravens_ —was dead dull, but filled with illustrations of ravens pecking people. Pressed flowers and leaves fell out of _A Survey of Greywater Watch Flora_ and Jon had to scramble to return them. Several books had comments scribbled in the margins; those were Jon’s favorites. 

After a long while, Jon glanced out the window and saw the sun well on its way West. That startled him, as did the cantankerous grumble from his his stomach. He gathered up two books with notes added in and one he actually wanted to read ( _Ravens from the Wall: Transcripted Correspondences, Vol. II_ ) and headed outside.

As Jon opened the door, there was an odd scraping noise from above. He looked up, expecting to see Bran, but instead it was Arya, making her way inexpertly down the wall. 

"Hello, little sister," Jon said. "Taking a leaf out of Bran's book?" 

Arya let herself drop down from a little too high off the ground for comfort. "No choice," she said. "I had to escape Uncle Edmure." 

"He's here already?" Jon asked, surprised.

"Got here after breakfast," Arya said. "You're lucky you didn't have to wait out there for him. We were standing in the courtyard for _hours._ " 

"I doubt it was hours." 

"Hours," Arya insisted. "And I had to walk with him and Mother and Sansa, and they were all talking about—" her tone turned disgusted, "— _marriages_ and things."

"Was this before or after you scaled the wall?" Jon asked.

"Before," said Arya. "I faked like I had a pebble in my shoe. Then when they weren't looking, I climbed up real quick." She paused. "I got a pebble now, though." 

She plopped down to take off her boot, scuffed up by the adventure. Jon couldn't help but laugh. 

"Sneaky," he said, "but clever." 

Arya scoffed. "Not really. They were all too distracted to look up." 

"I think it was clever," Jon said, just to see Arya duck her head and tell him to shut up. 

_Now if only I could climb away from my problems,_ Jon thought. But of course if Jon tried, he'd fall and break something, and that would cause an entirely new set of problems. He wasn't as adaptable as Arya.

"Is it true you have to share with Theon?" Arya asked, cutting through his musing. 

"What?" Jon asked. "Oh. Yes. You and Sansa are sharing too, aren't you?" 

Arya made a face. "Why can't she share with Jeyne Poole?" she asked plaintively. "Or with Robb—he's her favorite." 

Jon laughed. "And where would you stay, hm?" 

"With you, _obviously_.” 

By the gods, Jon was fond of her. "And Theon?" 

"With—oh," she said, brow creasing. "Bran hates him. That's not better. What if—Theon and Robb, me and you, Bran and Sansa?" 

"Bran'd hate her stories," Jon said, humoring her. "He only likes the scary ones."

"No, he likes the others," said Arya. "He just loves the scary ones best." 

"Which stories do you love best?" Jon asked.

"The ones where girls do things," Arya said promptly. "Other than sewing and crying and kissing and things." 

The ones Jon loved best were ones where bastards did things. "There's a book on dragon riders in the library," he offered. “A lot of them were women.” 

Brightening, Arya asked, "Are the pictures any good?" 

"There aren't any," Jon said apologetically. "But if you asked Sansa, I bet she'd read them to you."

"I'm not a baby!" 

"I know," Jon said, and then he confided, "I like to be read to, as well." 

Sighing, Arya flopped back and leaned against the wall. "It doesn't matter," she said. "She wouldn't do it. She hates me." 

"She doesn't," Jon said. But of course Arya didn't know what it was like to be really hated. 

"She does," Arya insisted. "Why wouldn't Father let me stay with you?" 

It wasn't an easy thing to explain.

"Propriety," Jon started finally, but Arya immediately nodded in understanding. 

"Young ladies must never sleep with young men, or they’ll be ruined and soiled forever," she said in a remarkably accurate impression of Septa Mordane. Then in her normal Arya-voice, she asked, "Why not you and Bran, though? Robb likes Theon well enough. Everyone knows that." 

Everyone did. Perhaps the only saving grace Theon's reputation had was his association with Robb, the golden boy, the unbesmirched heir to House Stark. 

Since Arya had understood _propriety_ so quickly, Jon said simply, "Status," but Arya still looked confused. 

"Is this about you being a b—" she stopped. "Being not... trueborn." 

Jon laughed. "You can say it," he said. Then he amended, "Not in front of grown-ups." 

"I know that!" Arya punched him on the arm.

With an exaggerated wince, Jon shifted his books to his hip so he could rub where she punched him. Arya huffed and called him an ass, but Jon could tell she was pleased. 

After a moment, Arya asked, "But what about status, though?" 

Grimacing, Jon tried to explain. "It would be seen as an insult," he said. "To keep the bastard and the... ward... on the same level as an honored guest." 

"That's not fair!" Arya said indignantly.

Jon reached out and tweaked her nose. "Life's not fair," he said over her squawk. It was an exchange they'd had often—ever since she came to him in tears, asking if she was a bastard too. 

Arya was still frowning, so Jon changed the subject. 

"Are you going to the broken tower?" he asked. 

"I wasn't," Arya said, blinking. 

"Your mother wouldn't think to look there," Jon said. "No one does. And sometimes there are birds' nests." He and Robb used to look for them, making a contest out of who could find the most eggs. 

Rolling her eyes, Arya said, "I knew that already." 

"Right," said Jon, amused. "I forgot you know everything." 

Arya punched his arm again. "Don't forget next time." 

"Scamp," Jon said. He tousled her hair. "Get going before your mother finds you." 

She stuck out her tongue. Then she turned and ran off towards the broken tower. 

Shaking his head fondly, Jon turned and headed back to the kitchens, having missed lunch. This time, burdened with books, he didn't manage to evade the kitchen girl. Despite his protests, she gave him a small meat pie and a very confusing wink. 

Jon decided not to try to juggle the books and food all the way back to his room, so he looked for a nook that wasn’t too busy. One corner was empty but for a pair of girls kneading bread and chattering. Jon sat by the wall so he was out of just sight and turned to the meat pie.

Nibbling his snack, Jon tuned out their conversation until one girl’s voice dipped into a stage whisper. “—and _Lord Theon_.”

Despite himself, Jon looked up. 

The girl who hadn’t spoken looked intrigued. “Is it true what they say about his—you know. That it’s—?”

She held out her hands to demonstrate size. 

“No,” said the first. “Bigger.”

Suddenly Jon wasn’t hungry anymore. Blushing wildly, he snatched up his books and scrambled out of the kitchens, wondering why a day didn’t pass where no one mentioned Theon Greyjoy. 

Safely back in the bedroom, Jon put two of his new books on the windowsill. He turned to the bed and found a bag there that hadn't been there before. A peek inside the wardrobe showed that it was newly filled with kraken-covered frippery. He sighed. 

He flopped on the bed with a book with scrawled notes and crude drawings. Paging through it occupied his attention until the dinner bell interrupted him. Grimacing, Jon closed the book and braced himself for an unpleasant meal. 

When Jon arrived at the Great Keep, people already filled it almost to capacity. The crowd made the air unusually hot and stuffy, and sweat immediately formed on Jon’s brow. He wiped at it with his sleeve. 

At the high table, Arya spotted him. She jumped up on the bench and waved. Jon knew he shouldn't laugh—it would only encourage her—but he couldn’t help it. Beside her, Bran looked up and waved too. Robb, on Arya's other side, yanked her down. He gave Jon a shrug and a look that said _what-can-you-do_. Jon shook his head fondly, because the answer was of course "nothing at all." 

Still, Arya's exuberance no doubt got Lady Stark's attention, so Jon turned and scanned the lower tables for familiar faces. Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole had their heads together, whispering about whatever thirteen-year-old girls whispered about. Jory Cassel was good company, but he was with Vayon Poole and Farlen, who were old and serious and probably talking about important castle matters. Jon couldn't help but notice that Theon hadn't yet arrived. _Perhaps he's at the tavern tonight_ , Jon thought, but that was too much to hope for. 

After some deliberation, Jon sat with Hal Mollen and some other younger guardsmen, who greeted him amiably enough. The seat had a bonus of being near the hounds, who greeted him much more enthusiastically. 

Hal and Poxy Tym were retelling a story of some drunken hunt or other, but Jon found it difficult to concentrate. The air was too thick and hot, the chatter too loud and present, the sourwine too strong. One of the hounds had her head in Jon's lap, looking up at him hopefully. He scritched her ears and let her slobber on his leg. 

Later than Jon would have thought, Theon made an appearance. He was less kraken-covered than usual, although still in black-and-gold finery. Jon tried not to notice. Beside him, Hal, Hullen, and Heward were performing—it couldn't be called singing—an off-key rendition of "When Willum's Wife Was Wet," nudging Wyl every time they said ‘Willum.’ The song and Wyl's protests that he was _Wyl, just Wyl,_ were entertaining enough, but somehow couldn't hold Jon's attention. He couldn't stop his eyes from straying across the room to Theon. 

Somehow Theon already had a serving girl in his lap, feeding him bits of apple. Ugh. It was beyond Jon how anyone could carry on like that in public. With Theon Greyjoy, no less. Jon gritted his teeth and stabbed at the stringy venison on his plate. It was a poor cut, and Jon found he couldn't muster the will to eat it. Instead, he handed it to the hound who'd kept him company. She snapped it from his fingers and retreated gleefully under the table with her prize. 

Jon sighed. _Summer friends,_ he thought ruefully. He poured himself more wine. 

When he looked up, Theon was gone. 

Confused, Jon glanced all across the hall, but he couldn’t see Theon anywhere. _He must have left,_ Jon thought. 

Theon hadn't looked at him the entire night.

Angry at himself and not sure why, Jon gulped down the entirety of the swill in his goblet and stood up, ignoring the headrush. Normally on feast nights Jon stayed long enough to take Arya to bed, but even as guilt squirmed inside him, he knew he had to leave. He stalked off without saying goodbye to the others at the table; none of them called after him. 

Being ignored, being dismissed, shouldn't be so hurtful from someone so awful; it was just that Theon was always doing it. Somehow out of every cruel thing Theon could do, that casual disregard stung most. Jon tried not to let it get to him, and often succeeded—it was only Theon—but it added up. Whenever Theon's eyes slid over Jon to land on someone more worthy, whenever he greeted Robb warmly and ignored Jon entirely—it crawled under Jon's skin and stuck there. 

_At least he found that girl,_ Jon thought, grimacing. As distasteful as he found Theon's liaisons, they kept him busy. _And not in the same room as me._

But when Jon opened the door to their room, Theon was there, lounging on the bed. For a moment Jon panicked that he'd brought the girl there, but there was no sign of her, and irritation replaced the panic. Why wasn't Theon off in the best room at the tavern or brothel? 

_Perhaps he pissed away his stipend already,_ Jon thought. _Or perhaps he thought he could bully me into sleeping on the floor._

"Bastard," Theon said cordially. 

Jon hated him. 

"Ward," he replied, barring the door. 

Theon's smile tightened at the edges. Jon tried not to feel as satisfied about it as he did. _Don't sink to his level,_ a part of him thought, but of course it was too late; his father had already put him there.

Jon's book from earlier was still where he left it, on Theon's other side. Jon wet his lips and glanced around the room. The only place to sit was the bed. 

After a moment of warring with himself, Jon sat as far from Theon as possible. Theon didn't acknowledge him at all. Jon's jaw clenched. 

He lit the candle on the end table, then opened the book and paged through. He found he couldn't concentrate. There was something about the silence. He'd never been alone in a room with Theon before. There was always Robb, his father, or the Maester— _someone_. Being alone together amplified Theon's presence, the itchy awareness of it, the thickness to the air; there was a restlessness in Jon's limbs that crawled like ants. 

Time dragged itself on its belly while they lay there, Theon drinking intermittently from a wineskin and Jon pretending to read. 

After an age, Theon unfolded his legs and stood up. He began to drift around the room. Jon tried to glue his eyes to the pages despite the burning curiosity in his chest. _Ignore him,_ he told himself. 

A thud. Jon couldn't stop from looking up. 

Theon dragged his finger down the spine of a book left on the windowsill. He noisily shuffled through it. Then he dropped it—another thud—and picked up the other one again. He opened them side by side and then, apparently bored, he snorted and dropped them haphazardly back on the sill. Two thuds.

They were the most annoying sounds Jon had ever heard in his life. 

"I'm not surprised you chose this book," Theon said. 

Jon looked back at the pages in his hands. He tried to read the note in the margin again. He couldn't.

" _Ravens from the Wall: Transcripted Correspondences, Vol. II,_ " Theon read. "Is that all you ever think about? The Wall?" 

_I also think about throwing you into the ocean, where you belong,_ Jon thought. 

"It makes sense, in a way," Theon said carelessly. "It's the only way you'll ever have a title." 

Jon turned a page. The words weren't made of letters, just inky mush. He pretended to read it. 

Heaving the heaviest possible sigh, Theon said, "You don't understand how degrading it is. Being forced to room with the bastard." 

Something inside of Jon began to boil. He pushed it down, and then pushed it down again, like trying to fit too many clothes in a trunk. The air felt like needles in his lungs, but Jon breathed deeply anyway; exhaled; repeated. 

_Simmer down,_ he told himself. The anger still snarled in his chest. _He's not worth it,_ he tried instead. The anger, reluctantly, settled back on its haunches.

"You know what they say about bastards, though," Theon chirped. 

And the boiling inside Jon surged. "Don't," he said sharply. 

"You don't know?" Theon asked, feigning innocence. "I can enlighten you, if you like. Don't you ever listen to gossip? Of course you don't. You're so above that, after all." 

Jon realized his hands were clenched so hard around the book that he couldn't feel them. He put the book down. With measured calm, he said, "Stop talking." 

"That's no way to speak to your betters," Theon said. "Impertinence—typical of bastards." 

That was weak. Theon seemed to know it, so he continued. 

"Oh, the lustfulness seems to have passed you over," he said. "And you're _very_ proud of that, I suppose. But what of the deceitfulness, hm? The jealousy? The _temper_?"

Then Theon grinned an ugly, toothy grin. "After all, who wouldn't be angry if their mother was a dirty, greedy, back-alley—" 

The boiling overflowed. Everything was red.

Jon blinked. He had Theon pinned to the wall. Forearm across his throat. Jon became aware of pain in his jaw—he was gritting his teeth tightly, snarling hard. Tension locked his limbs in place, the coiled fury in his bones ready to spring. 

Theon’s eyes were wide. The room’s dimness made them black. His mouth was open and Jon could feel him breathing, could feel the fluttering of his Adam’s apple where Jon trapped it. 

Shame knocked the breath out of Jon’s chest. He started to jerk backwards, to run, to run and run and run until he reached the Wall, but Theon stopped him. Grabbed his arm. 

Pressed it harder against his own throat. 

Jon couldn’t move. He felt inexplicably trapped, like Theon had pinned him instead of the other way around. Perhaps it was the stuffy, oppressive heat of the room. Perhaps it was Theon’s eyes, hooded and hooked on his. Jon could feel Theon’s heartbeat, could feel his own, and even in the dark he could see dampness on Theon’s lips.

Theon’s lips. Theon’s lips. Theon’s lips. 

Jon wanted to tear off his own skin. 

He yanked his arm back. Stumbled. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look at Theon. The floor was tilting dangerously beneath him. His mind was racing, but with only one thought: _run._

He fled.

*

Jon came back to himself in the courtyard. He couldn't remember getting there; the escape had taken up all the space in his head, leaving no room for that awareness.

Panting heavily, Jon threw himself down on a stone bench. He pressed his cheek to the cool surface, trying to let his breathing even out. His lungs weren't cooperating. There was a stitch in his side and his skin was clammy with cold sweat. It was like he'd awoken from a nightmare.

 _No,_ Jon thought. _A fever dream._

Not just in the lingering sweat. The memory was reduced to choppy, nauseous images alternately drifting and racing through his mind's eye. Theon's face was trying to burn itself onto the back of Jon's eyelids.

The noise from the ongoing feast was distant yet deafening, and every insect in Winterfell was buzzing in his ear at once. Trying to ignore them, Jon pushed his cheek harder against the stone bench. 

_What's wrong with me?_ he thought miserably. _No one else makes me this angry._

Shame swept him away again. As vile—as cruel—as Theon was being, Jon shouldn't have lunged at him like an animal.

 _Reprehensible,_ Jon thought. _I really am what he says I am. Just a violent raging bastard._ His eyes prickled with hot tears. The lump in his throat reminded him of his arm pressing into Theon's neck, the pounding fury in his head and the heat of Theon's body. His mind's eye presented him with the vivid image of Theon's lips. 

Jon pushed it away, pushed himself upright. He wanted to hide in the godswood, to run to the Wall, to bury himself alive. All cowardly escapes called to him, crowding his mind: _Come, Jon Snow, come away from this mess you've made._

_A coward,_ Jon thought dully. _Is that what I am now? A bastard, a savage, and a craven?_

He picked himself up and brushed the dust from his back and the seat of his pants. He had to steel himself—and again—and once more.

Then he walked back to the Guest House like a prisoner marching to the block.

Jon hesitated at the door, half-hoping Theon would be gone. He pushed open the door. 

No luck. Theon was always exactly where Jon didn't want him. 

At the moment: lounging on the bed, pouring a bottle of expensive-looking wine down his throat. The wineskin from earlier lay on the floor, forgotten.

It was lucky Theon was there, Jon decided. Fretting over the apology while waiting would have been unbearable. _Better to get it over with now,_ Jon thought, trying to believe it.

He cleared his throat. 

Finally noticing Jon, Theon pushed himself up. He kept his eyes on Jon, one eyebrow rising challengingly.

"I'm sorry," Jon blurted out.

Theon's other eyebrow rose, now incredulous.

"I shouldn't have shoved you," Jon said. "I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have let it get to me even if it was—that was inappropriate and I apologize, it was—"

"Seven hells," said Theon. "Stop talking before you hurt yourself."

Jon's jaw snapped shut. He stared at Theon, trying to make sense of the words. 

"I was baiting you," Theon said, slowly, as if explaining something to a child. 

In fairness, Jon’s powers of comprehension were currently quite limited. "What?" he asked.

Theon sighed. "I was making you mad on purpose."

"I know what baiting means," said Jon, bewildered. 

"Not sure how you missed it," said Theon. His words were slightly slurred. "It wasn't subtle." 

_On purpose,_ Jon thought. He cursed himself, feeling seven kinds of foolish. How _had_ he missed it? In retrospect, it made an odd kind of sense. No wonder Jon fell for it so quickly! He cursed himself again. Had this happened before? Had Jon never noticed? And more importantly—why did Theon do it? It wasn't a jape at Jon's expense, not with no one there to laugh; besides, Theon didn't even seem upset that Jon shoved him against the wall. What was his goal? Was he hoping Jon would storm off so he could have the room to himself?

Nothing made sense. In all the years Jon’d known Theon Greyjoy, Theon’d never confused him this much. 

"Why?" Jon asked finally.

Theon shrugged. "I like you better when you're angry."

It should have brought back Jon's anger. It should have, but it didn't. Perhaps earlier Theon burned up all Jon's anger, and now there was none left for this strange, confusing revelation.

With no anger to spare, Jon shook his head and began to laugh.

Theon's head snapped up. He stared at Jon as Jon laughed. His smile was gone, leaving his face an inscrutable mask. Jon's laughter faded and he looked back, watching Theon curiously until Theon cleared his throat.

“Come,” Theon said, gesturing expansively with the wine bottle. “Have a drink. Wash out the taste of the lower tables.”

Jon blinked, thrown by the abrupt subject change and by Theon’s carefully unbitter tone. And by the invitation—Theon had never invited Jon to anything in his life. Everything felt odd and out of place, like someone had, without his knowledge, moved all the furniture in his bedchamber slightly to the left. It didn't help that Jon had already drunk far too much that night.

When Theon's expression began folding in, Jon realized with a start that he had been staring, unmoving, in befuddled silence. 

That decided it; accepting was the only way to keep this strange fragile truce treading water. 

Jon moved to sit on the bed, tugging off his boots. Theon's face cleared so quickly Jon almost thought he’d imagined it darkening earlier. He moved and made space for Jon. 

"Dornish Red," said Theon, showing Jon the label. "I'll wager you've never had this before."

"I have not," Jon confirmed. It would be wasted on him; his palate was only refined enough to tell when wine was terrible, not when it was especially choice. Of course, he wasn't about to admit that to Theon Greyjoy.

Theon took another swig from the bottle before surrendering it. His fingers brushed Jon's on the way.

"It really deserves a glass, but the bottle will have to do," Theon said. He laughed at some private joke. "It always does."

Jon turned the bottle around in his hands. Theon hadn't seemed to mind that both their mouths would touch the bottle, so Jon decided not to care either. After all, it was nothing like a kiss (or what Jon imagined a kiss to be like); he couldn't feel the heat of Theon's lips or taste them. Just sour, licorice-smoky wine that burned on the way down.

Theon laughed when Jon coughed. "There's a bit of a kick to it."

"I noticed," Jon said hoarsely.

Theon laughed at him again, but it wasn't a cruel laugh. It was a strange revelation that not everything about Theon Greyjoy was cruel. _Some things are,_ Jon reminded himself, wondering if he would somehow forget. _All the wine must be catching up to me._ He handed the bottle back.

"Cheers," said Theon.

Theon's swallow was theatrical; he threw his head back so his long, elegant throat was on display. Unbruised. _Good,_ Jon told himself. _He'd surely hate it if I left a mark._

Theon wiped the back of his hand across his lips. They were still red and damp. "Terrible, isn't it?" he said.

The words registered slowly. Tonight Jon was oddly distractible. "The wine?" he said, taking the bottle back. He wondered if Dornish Reds had gone out of style while he wasn't looking, and that's why Theon offered to share.

Theon snorted. "No. The wine is excellent. Be honored that I'm sharing, it's my last bottle."

Some secret part of Jon was deeply pleased, if not honored. It was buried beneath the parts of him that were baffled by Theon Greyjoy, by the evening, by his entire life; but it was there, undeniable and warm. 

"Where do you get it, anyway?" Jon asked. "They don't sell this in Wintertown."

"Trader from White Harbor," Theon said. "Whenever his caravans come I stock up. He sets it aside for me."

That sounded unnecessarily expensive, but if Jon said so, Theon would probably be pleased that Jon noticed. He took a drink instead. The wine went down easier the second time, but now Jon could feel it pooling hotly in his stomach.

Suddenly Jon remembered Theon's question from earlier. "What's terrible?"

"What?"

"You said a minute ago something was terrible."

Theon laughed. "Everything is terrible."

"Except wine," said Jon.

"Except wine," agreed Theon.

It didn't appease Jon's curiosity. He wanted to inquire further, but it seemed futile. He still had the wine bottle; he made use of it, and had to wipe the drips off of his chin.

"Give that here," Theon said, stealing it back.

After another one of his dramatic swallows, Theon spoke.

"This visit," Theon said. "This situation. All of it. Terrible."

“I can’t argue with that.”

Theon laughed. “That’s a first.”

Jon regarded Theon with a new curiosity. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes long and dark against his skin. He looked at Theon's collarbone, his neck, his jawline, his lips. He looked away from Theon's lips. 

"Why do you like me better when I'm angry?" Jon asked abruptly.

The question made Theon's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Well," he said. He paused, thinking about it. Then he said, "You're annoying when you're quiet."

"Am I?" This was news.

"You make this face," said Theon, gesticulating with the wine bottle.

"I do not," Jon said.

"You do," said Theon. He attempted to demonstrate, pinching all his features closed, but couldn't maintain it before dissolving in laughter.

Jon wasn't sure why he laughed along, but he did. "I don't believe you," he said, because he didn't. _He never even looks at me._

Theon's smile faded. He watched Jon thoughtfully for a moment. Jon let him, watching him back.

"You really don't know?" Theon asked finally.

"Why I'm annoying when I'm quiet?"

"That," said Theon. "And why it's better when you're angry. You should understand—you of all people."

"Of all people?" Jon repeated, bemused. This was impossible; Theon thought himself so far above the lowly bastard. "Why me?" 

“You,” Theon said, waving a hand. “You’re not—they don’t—they ignore you, too.”

 _You’re impossible to ignore,_ Jon thought. _I’ve tried._

"You ignore me," said Jon instead, realizing after that it wasn’t a safer thing to say.

“I ignore you like you ignore me,” Theon said, and Jon realized it was true.

Theon, who made himself impossible to avoid, always alternated between needling Jon and pointedly ignoring him. Theon's ever-pointed japes, calculated to cut him to the quick. There was nothing careless about the cruelty; they were provocations. Theon was desperate for reactions, too sick of being ignored. 

Theon Greyjoy, bully and brat, the eternal tormentor, craved Jon's attention. The realization fizzled gleefully in Jon's veins. 

"And when I'm angry..." Jon said slowly. 

“You're the only one that hates me because of me,” Theon laughed. 

Jon remembered the cold, dead looks Lady Stark shot him; remembered all the times he wilted under her stares. There was nothing he could do to change her hatred of him, because he'd done nothing to invoke it. He wondered what it would be like to see that irrational, displaced hatred magnified across most of Winterfell. 

It occurred to Jon then that even though Theon knew he belonged somewhere, he could never forget that he was stuck in Winterfell, where he emphatically _didn’t_ belong. _We have that in common,_ Jon thought. 

Theon’s eyes were imploring. He put the bottle down. "Tell me you understand," he demanded. "I need you to tell me."

An odd feeling, like missing a step walking down the stairs, swooped in Jon's stomach. He was needed—his _approval_ was needed, by _Theon Greyjoy,_ who had invalidated him at every turn. How had Jon been so sure that Theon never gave him a moment’s thought? _Do I know him at all?_ Jon wondered. _Have I ever?_

Jon licked his lips. When he spoke, his voice was rough.

"How could I not?" Jon asked.

Relief flooded Theon's features. Jon had never seen the expression on him before. He was so shocked by it that he didn't notice Theon leaning in until Theon kissed him. 

Jon jerked back involuntarily. It would have broken the kiss, but Theon's hands were on Jon's face, holding him still. 

Stunned, Jon couldn't control a full-body shudder. His lips fell open against Theon's. When Theon mouthed at them, wine and something new pooled molten at Jon's core. It felt unreal and too real all at once. His head was full of fog. 

Theon moved back just far enough to speak. "Let me," he begged. He kissed Jon again. "Jon. Let me..." 

_What am I doing?_ Jon thought, but he knew. 

He put his hand on Theon's thigh, for balance and because he wanted to, and leaned back in. 

They kissed and kissed again, longer each time. Theon’s fingers found their way to Jon’s curls; Jon twisted a hand in Theon’s shirt and tugged him even closer. Theon’s lips were warm and his tongue was hot, and he made small breathy noises when Jon licked into his mouth. His every reaction was a thrill down Jon’s spine.

Jon remembered stumbling upon one of Theon’s trysts. It had happened more than once—there was very little Theon did discreetly—but that time stuck out in Jon’s memory. He’d had some girl against the wall, her legs around his waist and her kisses on his neck. _Yes,_ Jon thought muzzily, _that’s what I want_ , so he bent and pressed his mouth to Theon’s throat. 

It turned Theon to putty. Theon let Jon push him back on the bed, let Jon climb on top of him; parted his lips for Jon’s tongue, his legs for Jon’s thigh. Theon clutched at him and it was so impossibly good to be wanted. Jon had never known Theon to be so malleable or compliant, and the novelty of it was heady. 

Coherent thought became impossible. Instinct took over. It didn't seem to matter that Jon was bluffing. Everything he knew about this he learned from Theon’s stories, the ones he couldn’t help but listen to, but still Theon arched beneath him and let him and let him and let him. 

When Jon faltered, Theon grunted impatiently. "Come on," he said. He guided Jon's hand between his legs. "You can." 

Jon wasn't sure he could, but Theon was smiling and kissing his neck and mumbling, “I can teach you," and Jon didn’t know if he was consuming or being consumed. 

Either way, Theon melted into Jon's touch and Jon melted into Theon's. When Jon bit and sucked at Theon’s throat, Theon cried out, and Jon thought in violent satisfaction: _I did that, I made him sound like that, it was me_. Time turned liquid and seasick. Everything blurred and blended together, kissing and wet sounds and dizzying heat. 

When Theon came, Jon had Theon's wrists pinned to the bed with one hand—he couldn't remember putting them there—and he held them still as Theon shuddered through it, moaning. When Theon pulled free, he tugged Jon in close, murmured encouragements in his ear and let him grind against his thigh until he spent. 

It wrung him out like a wet rag. The sudden emptiness in his chest made him collapse. Panting heavily, he closed his eyes. The last thing he felt before sleep claimed him was fingers carding through his hair. 

*

The sun snuck over the horizon, brightness invading the room and creeping under Jon’s eyelids. Even with his eyes closed, it was enough to trigger a raging headache. 

Grunting in displeasure, Jon turned away from the offending sun. He threw his arm over his face to further block the light, and his fingers brushed flesh that wasn’t his. 

Jon’s eyes snapped open. Suddenly he was terribly awake and his headache was eclipsed by dawning horror. Memories flooded him. He clutched his head, staring in dismay at Theon’s sleeping face. There was a content kind of peace there, somehow only adding to Jon’s anxiety. Then Jon saw purple bite-marks on Theon’s throat and his panic doubled.

Fortunately, Theon didn’t stir as Jon furtively slipped out from under the bedsheet. Grimacing, he peeled off his clothes. He dressed as quickly and quietly as he could and grabbed his boots—when had he even removed them? He couldn’t remember—and padded into the hall. 

Once Jon was sure his footsteps wouldn’t risk waking Theon, he stopped to put put the boots on. He pulled on the first; his panic caught up with him halfway through the second. 

_What was I doing?_ he asked himself. _What was I thinking?_ Had he even considered stopping? He racked his brain, but all he could remember was the way Theon looked beneath him, the way Theon responded to his touch, the way Theon clutched at him so desperately. At the time, Jon hadn’t even thought about how he was kissing another boy; now all of Theon’s taunts about his disinterest in girls came rushing back. 

_Gods,_ Jon thought feelingly. 

He yanked his boot the rest of the way on and scurried out to the courtyard. The sun, even brighter now, mocked him relentlessly. The sky was brutally clear, aggressively blue. There was no relief in sight for the hideous humid heat of the past few days. 

Tail between his legs, Jon slunk to the library. He tried to catch a nap in the stacks, but sleep eluded him, his headache persisting. The pounding of his head was too loud and insistent for him to read, either. Even hunting for vandalized books couldn't hold his interest. But the idea of leaving the library filled him with dread—no one would even think to look for him here. Especially not Theon. Panic gripped him at the thought. He couldn't face Theon, not now. There was no way.

His memories of the night before were vague but insistent. He tried to remember what they had talked about after Jon tried to apologize, but it was a disorganized swirl of wine and kissing. He didn’t want to remember the kissing. Groaning, he rubbed his hands over his face. 

Jon wasn't sure if it bothered him more that he'd kissed another boy, or that the boy was _Theon Greyjoy._ Or perhaps it was that Jon hadn't known he wanted to, but somehow Theon had. _You must have known,_ a voice in Jon's head argued, _deep down, somewhere, you must have,_ but Jon didn't like the idea of that. Instead of considering it further, he put his head back down on _Justice and Injustice in the North: Judgments of Three Stark Lords_ and tried to ignore the warring inside his head. 

And failed, of course. The memories of Theon's kisses replayed insistently in Jon's mind, shaming him with how easily he'd been swept away. He idly considered bludgeoning himself to death with _Justice and Injustice in the North_. 

Jon decided then that what bothered him most was that Theon had known. It was obvious in retrospect: Jon's disinterest in bedding women was one of Theon's favorite things to comment upon. At the time, Jon dismissed it as Theon's attempt to justify his own affairs. Perhaps that had been a part of it. But knowing now that Theon had watched him closely, it was clear Theon knew something about Jon that he hadn't known about himself. 

_He won't tell anyone,_ Jon told himself. He'd been wrong about Theon before, but he was sure of that much. To tell someone would be to implicate himself, and Theon certainly wouldn't risk it. Jon wondered if Theon’s prominent liaisons with women were a way of deflecting attention from his attraction to other men. Or perhaps he’d only slept with Jon because Jon was _there_ , and would have passed him over for a woman if one was convenient. The thought stung. 

Jon tried to see if _Kings of Winter: Ancient Lines and Lineages_ made a better pillow. It did not. 

Hunger began gnawing at him until, near noon, he couldn’t ignore it and continue cowering in the library. The kitchens were close by, close enough that the risk was minimal. _Surely Theon wouldn’t be there,_ Jon thought. His hunger agreed. 

Reluctantly, Jon succumbed. 

When Jon peeked furtively into the courtyard, it was deserted. He stole into the kitchens, slipping in and out without being noticed. 

On his way out, however, he hesitated. It occurred to him that he couldn't go back to his—their—room in the Guest House, even though Theon _probably_ wasn’t there. The library was his best option, but he couldn’t quite make himself go back. A tap on his shoulder interrupted him in the attempt.

"You awake?" Robb asked as Jon jolted violently. 

"No," Jon snapped. 

Robb, Robbishly, chose to ignore him. "Good," he said. "I wanted to talk to you. Come on." 

Jon didn't want to talk to anybody, but Robb was Robb and Jon was Jon; it was an equation which added up to Jon sullenly trailing after his brother. 

"Arya was asking after you last night," Robb said. 

For a moment, Jon was confused, but then he remembered dinner in the Great Keep, before everything turned twisted and hellish. He’d let his little sister down. Lovely. Another thing to feel guilty about. 

"I just... had to get out of there," Jon said. "Tell her I'm sorry, will you?" 

"You won't tell her yourself?" 

Jon gave him a pointed look. "While she's entertaining our honored guest, and I'm avoiding him?" 

Robb's mouth formed an _o_. "Right," he said apologetically. "Of course." 

Shrugging, Jon leaned back against a tree. He knew Robb had difficulty remembering their differences in status. 

"But I wanted to ask," Robb said. "How are you faring?" 

"I'm well," Jon said automatically. Then he scowled. "You brought me here just to exchange pleasantries?" 

"Of course not."

"Then—?"

"It’s just—you and Theon haven’t always gotten along," Robb said. 

It echoed their father's words so much that Jon startled. _Gotten along_ , they said, and here Jon was battling images of Theon beneath him, shuddering; Theon's lips, sour and red; Theon's elegant throat, decorated with bruises.

"We're doing well," Jon said stiffly. 

Robb rolled his eyes. "'Well.' Of course," he huffed. "That's what Theon said, too. And then he went and had his _incident_ with Uncle Edmure." 

"What?!" 

"Well," Robb amended, "it might have been an accident." 

"What did he _do_?" Jon asked impatiently. 

"He was stomping around the courtyards. Covered in krakens. Wasn't like Uncle Edmure could have missed it. He ran into us, I had to introduce him, Uncle Edmure said something about the history between the Greyjoys and the Tullys and then Theon—" Robb waved his hand. "You know Theon." 

Jon did know Theon. 

"Mother was furious," Robb said. "And Theon's in the _worst_ mood. You won't provoke him tonight, will you? This isn't easy for him." 

"He's the one who provokes me," Jon said. His mind helpfully produced an image of Theon squirming beneath him. He squashed it down. 

"Oh, please," said Robb. For the first time, Jon noticed how frazzled he looked. "Just try to get along, will you? If he bothers you, just ignore him. The visit will be over before you know it. All you have to do is stay out of sight." 

Easy for Robb to say. It was difficult not to resent him in that moment. Robb meant well—he always did—but he couldn't understand how it felt. Robb would never know how it hurt when your mere existence was a dishonorable stain. Robb—sweet, earnest Robb—was the product of another world. 

Jon crossed his arms over his chest. "Did you give Theon the same talk?" 

Robb laughed. "You can't talk to Theon about this kind of thing," he said. 

Jon raised an eyebrow.

"He'd laugh it off and forget it," Robb explained. "Or he'd get angry and stomp around or—oh, just trust me. There's no use. You're the reasonable one." 

Making a face, Jon looked away. 

"Don't be like that," Robb pleaded. "Just—he's—I know he's not easy to get along with. But can you try? For me?" 

_You haven’t_ seen _us getting along,_ Jon thought. _I don’t think that’s really what you want._ For a moment, he wanted to tell Robb what had happened last night. The urge passed quickly, and Jon saw it for the foolhardy impulse it was.

Instead, Jon grunted, vaguely assenting. Unsurprisingly, that was good enough for Robb, whose face lit up. 

"Wonderful!" Robb said, clapping his hands together. "But I have to go. Sansa hasn't murdered Arya yet and I need to keep it that way. I'll see you later, though?" 

Jon gave him a half-hearted wave of assent, and Robb grinned before bounding off back towards the castle. 

Sighing, Jon watched him go. Then he flopped down on the forest floor. He resolved to lie there, staring up at the canopy of leaves until autumn came and they buried him alive. Or until he got hungry again. Whichever came first. 

*

Jon gave up on letting the forest bury him even before he got hungry. He was too restless to lie still, and kept thinking ants were crawling down his shirt. He began to wander aimlessly through the godswood instead, keeping his mind clear by forcefully shoving away unwanted thoughts.

His feet took him to a hot spring that he and Robb often visited together. The after-effects of last night's wine still pounded in his skull, and he realized how sore and dirty he felt. He stripped quickly and climbed into the water. 

Something about the near-scalding heat of the water soothed him, pushed away his persistent thoughts. It was so hot that even though Jon kept his head above water, his face quickly dampened with steam and sweat. 

Time passed. Jon’s headache waned. He could nearly convince himself he was at peace. 

Rustling of footsteps on the forest floor. Jon looked up. 

Theon Greyjoy. Of course it was. Who else would it be? Too late, Jon realized that Theon accompanied Robb to this hot spring as often as Jon did. Jon wanted to laugh or cry or throw up. Theon hadn't left his mind all morning, yet somehow Jon had managed to overlook this possibility. _I should have stayed in the library,_ he thought miserably.

Theon was smiling. "Oh, it's only you," he said. 

"Did you come here to use the springs?" Jon asked foolishly, as if there were another reason for Theon to be here. 

"Obviously." 

Jon was sure he flushed at Theon's patronizing tone, but fortunately his face was already too pink from the heat of the water for it to show.

"I'll leave you to it," he said, moving to climb out of the water. 

"Don't bother," Theon said dismissively. He began pulling off his boots. 

Freezing, Jon tried to see a way to get past Theon and leave, but Theon was cutting him off from his clothes. He deliberated so long on what to do that he missed his chance; Theon slid into the water.

Jon's eyes flickered to him and away. He wondered if Theon had managed to forget, somehow. He wished he could, too, wished he could be as casual and caustic as Theon. He tried not to dwell on the mouth-shaped marks on Theon's throat.

Looking once made it impossible not to look back. Theon wasn't looking at him, lounging against the rocky side of the pool. His arms were crossed behind his head, turning him into the picture of lazy arrogance. Jon was ashamed to recognize his reaction as _wanting_. He was ashamed, too, that he couldn't stop noticing and noticing; the sharpness of his clavicle, the slimness of his waist, the delicate bones of his wrists. 

Jon forced himself to look down at his own hands, clenched on his knees underwater. 

He had no way of knowing how long it was before Theon spoke. 

"Listen, Snow," he said condescendingly. "I'm sure you're cross with yourself for finally giving in to your perversions. Don't fall on your sword over it. Or do, it makes no matter." 

Theon waved an idle, elegant hand. "You're not the first virgin to throw himself at the nearest warm body," he said. "You won't be the last." 

Theon paused, but Jon couldn't speak. Couldn't move. 

"Now, if it pleases you," Theon said, tone saying clearly that he couldn't care less if it pleased Jon or not, "you can go back to hating me. I still won't give a rat's ass." 

His smile was disdainful and dismissive. "It wasn't as though you were especially memorable." 

Dry as dust, Jon's throat clicked when he tried to swallow. "Likewise," he managed.

Theon gave the barest incline of his head, the haughty concession of a lord deigning to acknowledge his lesser. "Don’t worry about the room, I’ve someone waiting for me at the tavern tonight," he said carelessly. “I’m sure you have somewhere to be?”

As it happened, Jon had a pressing appointment to be buried alive by the forest. 

He nodded mutely. He needn't have bothered; Theon didn't acknowledge him further, closing his eyes and relaxing in the water.

Jon gathered his clothes, distantly relieved that he'd left them in one place this time. In all other respects, his dignity was shattered far worse than the last time he'd encountered Theon in the godswood. 

*

If Jon had been upset earlier, there were no words for how wretched he felt now. _It could have been worse,_ he told himself. _He could have said it when I was still in bed with him._ It didn't help. Jon wanted to be alone; he wanted to be someone else; he wanted to unravel himself like a sock with a loose thread. 

The dinner bell rang, but Jon couldn't stomach the idea of food, let alone eating in a stuffy hall, surrounded by rowdy drunks. Instead, he lay miserably in bed, wishing he had his room back. More than anything he longed for the comfort of his own bed. 

The worst part was how foolish he felt. He'd known Theon Greyjoy for over half his life. How could he have forgotten everything he knew about Theon in the space of three days? Jon should have ignored him, should have pushed him away, should have remembered who he had in bed with him. He deserved this, deserved every bit of it. It was his own fault for being so needy, so pathetic. 

_When Lord Edmure leaves, I'm going to the Wall,_ Jon promised himself. _I don't care how long Father thinks I should wait. I'll steal a horse if I must._ Then his father would have to let him go, or he'd be forced to lop off Jon's hand. 

That thought comforted Jon enough for a half-sleep to finally wash over him. Even the distant sounds from the castle drifting through the windows barely affected him. His mind blessedly quiet, he drifted in and out of wakefulness, until the door to the room slammed open. 

Jon jolted upright. Theon stormed in. 

"Snow," he snarled. 

_He's not supposed to be here,_ Jon thought numbly. "Greyjoy?" 

"Snow," Theon repeated, more insistently. "Get up. Get the fuck up." 

Jon threw his legs over the side of the bed. "What are you doing here?" 

"Get up!" Theon shouted. Strangely, there was a desperate note to his voice. 

Concerned, Jon stared at him. "What's wrong?" he asked. 

Theon grabbed Jon's shirt and yanked him to his feet. Jon didn't resist, watching Theon warily. He braced himself with his hands on Theon's wrists.

"You fucking—" Theon said. Then he stopped. Released Jon's shirt. Shoved him back. 

Jon kept his balance, barely. Theon took a step back, and another, and then growled and kicked at the endtable.

"Don’t you ever get tired,” Theon said, over-enunciating and speaking too slowly, “of being _angry_ all the time?”

What? "Try talking sense for once," Jon said. 

"Not _now_ , Snow!" 

The sun was pouring in from the West-facing window, still loitering above the horizon like an unwanted guest. It clung to the planes of Theon's face, the tousle of his hair. For the first time, Jon noticed the flush high in his cheeks, the unsteadiness in his motions. 

"You're drunk," Jon said. 

"Water is wet!" Theon snapped. 

"What is going on?" 

"You—" Theon said, jabbing his finger at Jon. "You, you, how do you stand being furious every minute of every day?" 

"I'm not furious every—" 

"Shut up!" Theon said. "I'm yelling at you!" 

"I noticed." 

"Shut up!" 

Jon shut up, more out of confusion than because Theon ordered it. He sat back down on the bed.

Theon started pacing again, opening and closing his mouth. The longer he went about collecting his thoughts, the more perplexed and curious Jon became. 

Finally, Theon rounded on Jon and said, accusingly, "You _left._ " 

It wasn't what Jon expected. "What?" 

"You were gone," Theon said. "This morning. I woke up and, nothing. I looked for you, nothing. I thought you ran to the fucking Wall like a _fucking_ coward because no one had seen you all day!" 

Mouth falling open, Jon stared back at him. He felt half-drunk or half-asleep, and entirely unable to absorb the words tumbling out of Theon's mouth. 

Theon was panting. "How do you stand it?" he asked. "I've never been so angry." 

Jon began to speak. 

"Don't," Theon said. He turned towards the door. "Don't—I'm going. I'm leaving. I'm going to go. This is—" He whirled back around, pointing at Jon again. "Don't you dare tell anyone!" 

"I wasn't going to!" 

"Good!" 

With that, Theon was once more on his way out. 

"Wait," Jon blurted out. 

His hand on the door's handle, Theon froze. A minute or an hour passed in silence. "Why should I?" Theon asked then. 

Jon didn't know what to say, only that he had to say something. His mind was finally catching up to Theon's rant. _You left. I thought you ran to the Wall . You left. I looked for you. You left._

Wetting his lips, Jon said finally, "Do you really have a girl waiting for you at the tavern?" 

"Fuck off," Theon said, and then he added, "Yes." 

Unsure whether to believe Theon, Jon watched him instead. He was still facing the door. His shoulders were up near his ears defensively. His entire back was tense. _He's nervous,_ Jon thought. He didn't know what to do with that information.

Jon tried again. "Did you mean what you said in the godswood?" 

This time, Theon didn't answer, but after a moment he turned to meet Jon's gaze. When he did, his eyes were so intense they hurt to look at. Jon looked back anyway for as long as he could.

"Did you mean any of it?" Jon asked him. 

Theon was still quiet. His chest rose and fell heavily with each breath. 

Just as Jon thought Theon wasn't going to answer, Theon said, "I meant it that you're a sanctimonious hell-shrew." 

Jon was pretty certain Theon hadn't said that. He'd have remembered the phrasing; Theon had a way with words. He couldn't help but let a huff of laughter escape. 

Theon crossed the room in long, purposeful strides until he was a breath away from Jon. "Don't," he said. "Don't laugh. You never laugh." 

"I do," Jon said, surprised. "When something's funny." 

Making a frustrated noise, Theon clenched and unclenched his fists. "You aren't supposed to laugh," he said. "You're supposed to get angry." 

"Because you like me better when I'm angry," Jon said, suddenly remembering that conversation. Was that why Theon said those things in the godswood? Because if he was to be hated, he wanted it to be for _his_ cruelty, and not his father’s? 

"Because I like you best when you laugh," Theon said.

Time slowed to a trickle, the last viscous drip draining from a honeypot. They stared at each other, both too shocked at the words hanging between them to move or speak. 

Then, abruptly, Theon looked like he wanted to strangle himself. " _Fuck,_ " he spat, and went to turn around. 

Before Theon could, Jon snatched his wrist. "Wait." 

Theon jerked, but couldn't shake him off. "Don't tell me what to do, bastard," he said. Somehow, it didn't have the same sting as usual. "Let go of me." 

"I left because I was scared," Jon blurted out. 

Theon stilled.

"I was scared," Jon said. "I was—I _am_ scared. I'm _scared_. How are you not scared?" 

There was nothing fragile about Theon Greyjoy, but the fading light made him look that way. The shadows played across the lines of his face and softened them. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes, edging out the arrogance usually dominating his features.

Finally Theon said, “We’re not _all_ cowards,” and Jon tried to remember Theon ever showing fear, ever running away from anything. Jon supposed they both had something to prove. Everything to prove. 

Jon looked at Theon’s face, and then he looked at his own fingers encircling Theon's wrist. In Jon's grip, it looked smaller and more delicate than it truly was. Jon thought about letting go of it. Instead, he traced the soft inner skin with his thumb. 

"You really didn't know?" Theon asked. 

There were a lot of things Jon didn't know. "Know...?" 

"That you want to bed men." 

Jon let go of Theon's wrist. "How did you know I wanted to?" 

Theon shrugged. "It's obvious after a while." 

Then Theon saw the horror on Jon's face. He laughed. "Calm yourself," he said. "I meant for others who... other inverts. No one else gives a shit. They wouldn't notice if we fucked right before their eyes." 

The word _inverts_ made unwelcome heat rush to Jon's cheeks; the word _fuck_ made them flame, and that one was followed by extremely unhelpful mental images that Jon had to wrestle into submission. 

Theon was laughing at him. Rolling his eyes, Jon took Theon's wrist again and tugged until Theon sat down. Then Jon let go again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Theon glance to him and then away again. 

They were close enough that their knees touched. Jon wondered if he should move away, but Theon seemed comfortable enough where they were, so Jon stayed. The quietness was so profound that their breathing seemed impossibly loud. 

Jon remembered how it felt to hold Theon's wrist. He regretted letting it go. He glanced at Theon's hand, resting flat on the bed, with his own beside it. Theon's fingers sprawled spiderishly on the linens. Jon's small finger inched towards Theon's. Theon didn't move away, so Jon let them brush together.

Theon turned. Jon ducked to hide his blush, but it was too late. Smiling, Theon bumped his shoulder against Jon’s.

Jon twined his fingers with Theon’s. Impossibly, Theon allowed it. For a moment, Jon catalogued the feel of Theon’s hand, the feel of his knobby knuckles and the smoothness of his skin. Then Jon turned to look at Theon, and noticed that he was wearing a high-necked doublet. Given the day’s heat, Theon could only have worn it to hide the bite marks on his throat. 

It pleased Jon to remember they were there. There was a strange satisfaction to it, like carving his name on a tree— _Jon Snow was here_ —except trees didn’t moan when you marked them. 

Theon eyed him suspiciously. “What are you smiling for?” 

The irony of being asked that by Theon Greyjoy, of all people, made Jon’s smile widen. Theon’s eyes fell to Jon’s lips.

“I just remembered,” Jon said, reaching out. He brushed his fingers over the approximate location of a bite mark. 

Theon stilled for a breath, then two, and then he batted Jon’s hand away. “Ass,” he muttered. 

That pleased Jon too. 

Jon sat there for some time, quietly being pleased, and then suddenly he had a wonder. “Would it bother you if I stopped hating you?” he asked. 

“What?” Theon sounded disoriented. 

“What would you do if I stopped?" Jon asked. 

For all Robb had implored Jon to try, _not loathing_ Theon had never really seemed like an option. It was becoming clear that Jon was wrong. Jon had been wrong about a lot lately. 

Jon waited expectantly, and eventually, without looking at him, Theon spoke. 

“You’d be bad at it,” he said. Then he clarified, “Not hating me.” 

Raising his eyebrows, Jon asked, “Is that a challenge?” 

“Fuck, Snow, not everything is a challenge,” Theon said. 

Jon smirked at him, then, and Theon rolled his eyes. 

After a while, Theon said, “I—” he stopped. “I’d be bad at not making you hate me." 

Jon chewed his lip. "You can't _make_ me do anything." 

“Don’t try,” Theon said. “I’m not trying either.” 

Jon _hmmm_ ed noncommittally. 

“I mean it, Snow,” Theon said, in a tone that he probably meant to be warning but completely fell short, largely because he was still holding Jon’s hand. 

“You might have noticed,” Jon said, “that I’m a little bit stubborn.” 

Theon snorted. “I noticed that you’re a hell-shrew,” he said, to make Jon laugh, and Jon did. 

When the laughter faded, Jon wondered what else Theon had noticed about him, and how long Theon had been noticing him. He wondered why him—why Jon Snow, of all people—and he considered asking, but Theon was Theon and Jon knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer. But he also knew that Theon could have found another boy to kiss, if it was boys Theon wanted; he could have found one who wasn’t a coward or a hell-shrew. But Theon found something about Jon especially wantable. Whatever that something was, Jon was glad of it. 

Jon had known Theon Greyjoy for over half his life, except that the Theon he'd known wasn't the same Theon sitting beside him, with Jon's lovebites on his throat and Jon's hand in his. That Theon had never existed, and Jon was less sure of anything than he'd ever been. He wasn’t even certain that he was the same person he’d been before he kissed Theon and pressed him down into the mattress.

Dusk spilled, violet, through the windows, bringing with it sounds of insects and distant revelry. Normally the noise would aggravate Jon, but tonight, he found he didn’t mind it. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what was. Sleep would come, the heat would pass, and one day they would leave. 

It was enough; it had to be.


End file.
